


United We Stand

by emmram



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, musketeersfest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-04 13:24:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3069740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmram/pseuds/emmram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of ficlets I wrote for the musketeersfest on tumblr. Featuring a surprising amount of angst, some romance and (hopefully) humour.</p><p>1 - The Four Musketeers<br/>2 - Favourite character<br/>3 - Favourite episode<br/>4 - Favourite quote<br/>5 - Favourite relationship<br/>6 - Series One -- Missing Scenes for every episode</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ficlets along with corresponding screencaps can also be found on my tumblr.

It’s one of those days.

-

There’s iron at the corner of Athos’ mouth and sourness on his tongue; as he slumps, his bones creak, like tortured wood under the weight of every part of himself that he’d ever dared to give to the world. He smells blood and sweat and stale wine and sees ( _her_ ) white; in this yawning void, somewhere in between the numbness of wine that runs like blood and blood that runs like wine under his sword, every part of him aches with a pain that is as selfish as it is crippling. Between life and death, love and misery, duty and destitution, he wanders, lost—until there’s a hand that grips his, strong and callused, followed by another, then another. Athos smells gunpowder now—and hears laughter, the creak of leather, and the sounds of three more glasses being set on the table, like pillars for a home he never knew he needed, and he isn’t so lost anymore.

-

Porthos shuffles his cards and counts his coins and grins his widest grin; if there is something brittle in his good humour and a tremor in his grease-stained fingers, it is lost on his opponent, who moves away looking mutinous. Porthos’ grin fades completely as he stares at the coins in his hand and feels a traitorous, terrible sense of disappointment when he can still close his fingers around them. He left a lost childhood and a lifetime of gnawing, desperate, scrambling survival, for _more_ —and here he is, still surviving, fingers nimble and his feet still in the gutter, even as his head dreams of more, beyond, ever and ever further away from the squalid streets of the Court, where he’d learnt to walk, then run, then fly. He closes his eyes as the _need_ coils around him like a living thing, and as he opens them, he sees Athos, at the far table, folded in misery. Athos, who’d always had what Porthos needs, yet sunk so far into himself he cannot see any of it. Porthos gathers himself and walks over and places his hand over Athos’—and looks up as Aramis’ and d’Artagnan’s hands join his. He laughs then, as this is a treasure that his hands cannot contain; it spills and surrounds and buoys him, and for now, Porthos is content.

-

 _oh but you are wicked, monsieur aramis_ , she giggles, and runs her fingers over another ridged scar and his skin tingles in her wake. He captures her mouth in a kiss, soft and fluent with practised ease, as Adele whispers _aramis_ into his mouth and Anne runs a hand along his face and into his hair and grips and pulls, and Isabel kisses his fingers and tells him, _you’ve damned us all, my love, you’ve damned us all_. Aramis starts so badly that he nearly throws her (he can’t remember her name, god, he can’t remember her _name_ ) off, and his chest heaves as his heart pounds madly against his ribs. She gathers her bedclothes around herself and asks him to leave with a quiet, hurt dignity that rattles his bones with shame, even as he clumsily dresses himself, gathers his belongings, and stumbles into the street. He’s shivering with cold, but perhaps that’s just desire—is it so wrong, to want so many things, to crave for the impossible? And he knows how life has answered that question—with twenty comrades and two lovers in their graves, and the two people he loves beyond all else forever out of his reach. His desire is a terrible thing that has destroyed entire worlds and remains poised to devour more, but as he walks into the tavern and joins hands with the three men who have survived it all and more, he only finds his love burning brighter, hotter, than ever before.

-

His throat is dry with sawdust, his muscles tremble, and his hair is stuck to his face with sweat, but d’Artagnan forces himself to go through one more routine, his rapier cutting through the air, rattling against an invisible opponent. He hates these quiet moments, when he is alone with his thoughts and not exhausted enough to fall into a dreamless sleep—but there’s only so much of his company he can subject his friends to, and only so much he can spar with his fellow soldiers. _If only you would let yourself stop and think_ , Charles, his father would say, and the memory sends a frisson of pain through his heart. He accompanied his father on a mission for mercy, and instead broke away to find his own justice, only to befriend the man he’d wanted to kill and protect the man who’d put his homeland into so much strife. There is no honour in searching for a purpose— _any_ purpose—to latch onto, no justice in murder. And here he is, upto his sleeves in spilt blood, his home a burnt husk he has not yet plucked the courage to visit. Sweat burns his eyes and tracks down his face as he sheaths his sword; his tired, stumbling legs carry him to the only beacon, the only purpose that makes sense anymore. He places his hand over those of Athos’, Porthos’, and Aramis’, the three men who’ve made space for him in their hearts like he’s belonged there all along, and thinks there is hope yet for his future.

-

It’s one of those days.

 _Gentlemen_ , Athos says, raising his glass, and they raise theirs.

 _All for one_ , they intone, _and one for all_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Two - Favourite Character: d'Artagnan

“He’s reckless and impulsive,” Athos says. “He lets his emotions dictate his actions far too often, and one of these days it’s going to get himself and others killed.”

-

“d’Artagnan’s nice enough, I suppose,” Constance says. “I mean, he’s sweet, and he can be kind, and shockingly enough, he can be pretty patient—” She narrows her eyes. “He isn’t—he’s listening, isn’t he? Oh for god’s—he’s got a big enough head as it is!”

-

King Louis blinks. “d’Artagnan _who_?”

-

“Lad’s a fast learner,” Porthos says and grins. “Takes twice the time to knock him flat on his back these days.”

-

“d’Artagnan has the peculiar ability to both attract beauty and be completely oblivious of it,” Aramis muses. “He’s confoundingly dense for someone who says the most audacious things.”

-

“You’d think he’s conquered half of Europe, the way he goes on!” Porthos laughs. “One of these days that mouth is going to get him into serious trouble.”

-

“Impetuous. Arrogant. Cocky.” Athos smiles. “And the extraordinary ability to mean everything he says.”

-

“Oh, oh he’s loud, and he’s chatty, and he’s everywhere at once, and when he stomps in he brings half the street into the house with him, and—and everything’s so quiet when he’s not there. Empty, almost… lifeless.”

-

“He’s decent enough with a sword,” Aramis concedes.

-

“Too much flash, too many flourishes,” Porthos shakes his head. “But battle’s cuttin’ that out of him, bit by bit.”

-

“He has it in him to be an extraordinary swordsman,” Athos says. “Unfortunately, he knows it. Training d’Artagnan… is as much about gardening his ego as it is about perfecting his technique.”

-

“He’s loyal, I’ll give him that,” Aramis says. “Whether you think you deserve it or not… he will stand by your side, no matter what.”

-

“d’Artagnan’s who you want with you when you go to the ends of the earth,” Porthos says. “He says he will do anything for the people he loves, and damn if he doesn’t try his hardest.”

-

“I can think of no better man to be by your side when everything else is lost,” Athos says, simply.

-

When d’Artagnan comes back from his first solo mission, he thinks Constance holds him tighter and kisses him longer; Porthos’ embrace is warm and Aramis’ eyes twinkle as he pours wine in d’Artagnan’s glass. “The Comte told me that I came very highly-recommended,” he says, half-pleased, half-bemused, but Athos only smiles and pulls him into his arms.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Three - Favourite Episode: 1.08: The Challenge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, and happy new season!

Picture this story—

Picture men who are soldiers, and soldiers who are warriors. Picture them in war, swords brandished, gleaming in the sun, blades limned with blood, their crest flying proudly over a smoking battlefield steeped in death and sacrifice. Now picture them in the spaces in between war, spirits rusty and broken like their abandoned weapons, their hearts daggered points that turn upon each other, friend upon friend, soldier upon fellow soldier. Picture this happening for several years in succession.

Now imagine that a young man enters the story, fire in his eyes and his boots trailing his father’s blood. Imagine that he tastes first blood in his quest for revenge, and that he foregoes his father’s mission to become a soldier himself—but that he finds three brothers whom he comes to love more than life itself in the bargain; that he meets a woman whose brightness he craves as though he has spent all his life with his heart buried beneath the ground.

His first brother walks the spaces in between battles more wounded than he is when he is in the thick of them; yet he hides the scars and teaches the young man everything he knows, cultivating his skills like he might tend to a fine garden. His second brother is all bluff laughter over a tender heart—in deceit, he finds love; in love, honesty; in honesty, the strength of purpose. His third brother gives himself freely to the world but treasures his heart that he will only lend to a few.

Imagine the young man drowning in all of this love, and imagine him losing all of it in one day.

Imagine him hanging everything he has and ever will be on the whims of two men who will forget him the next day; imagine that he stands at the brink of utter destruction with tears in his eyes, scoured clean by the idea that both the homes that he was born in and the home he has built lies in smoking ruins.

Now—

Imagine a stroke of extraordinary fortune.

Picture him taking it with both hands, fighting it with everything he has as his brothers look on and the world marvels. Watch in your mind’s eye his sword cutting leather and trailing blood; his wild hair flying, sweat pouring down his face. See him winning and earning his name as a valued soldier, and watch as the truth of what has happened and what he nearly lost bows his shoulders and brings tears to his eyes. See him kneel as a young man, and rise as a Musketeer.

Imagine this young man becoming one of the greatest warriors of his generation—but picture him taking the first steps of that journey to rest his head on the shoulders of the men who had put him there.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Four: Favourite quote(s)

" _Draw, if you wish! It'll be our duty to kill you and, incidentally, our pleasure._ "  
\-- Athos, 1.06: The Exiles

" _Mutton's the one that goes 'baa' and has wool on it._ "  
\-- d'Artagnan, 1.02: Sleight of Hand

" _There's a whole world out there, you know. You'd be good in it._ "  
\-- Porthos, 1.05: Homecoming

" _I found I was better at dispatching people to Hell!_ "  
\-- Aramis, 1.09: Knight Takes Queen

" _That's the most stupid thing I've ever heard, even by Musketeer standards._ "  
\-- Constance Bonacieux, 1.07: A Rebellious Woman

" _I promise I haven't killed anyone yet. Today._ "  
\-- Milady de Winter, 1.10: Musketeers Don't Die Easily

-

-

Athos finds parts of himself that he’d thought forever lost only when in the heat of battle; he will tell you that a cutting word can hurt twice as much as any blade, and when drunk, might confess to being influenced by his friends’ ribald sense of humour. But know this: Athos fights on many planes at once, and will have won the war even before you’ve picked up your sword.

d’Artagnan will talk to you about duty and honour and sacrifice, and he will come home covered in scars and drenched in enemy blood and an ever-greyer view of the world, but he will never completely stop being the farmboy from Gascony. The idea of complete sacrifice in the name of duty to a few is not beyond him, but he will still believe himself better than the man he is to be.

Porthos fills every moment of his life with so much of himself that it is a wonder that he still has one foot in his past and one hand stretched out to the future; there’s a fire in his need, in his actions, in his love, in his battles that burns brighter with every passing day. It doesn’t matter if you’ve lost hope; Porthos wants enough for the both of you.

Aramis has spent most of his life believing in a god that will understand his transgressions, if not forgive them; if nothing else, he will tell you, he deserves some credit for not professing one belief and yearning to live the opposite. But even after he kills in the name of the crown, he will close his eyes and he will utter a brief prayer, and you wonder if he isn’t living that duplicitous life after all.

Constance has spent far too long among headstrong men to be quelled by their grand gestures or brandished swords; she will prove herself their equal in spirit long before she has picked up a sword or fired a gun. Her only true vulnerability is love—for it can be wielded as a snare just as much as it is a window to a better world, and she is powerless against both.

Milady de Winter will tell you everything and she will tell you nothing; if that is pain you detect, buried beneath all the words, she will only use it on you as a weapon. She lies with the truth; she hates as she loves. And when you think you have understood her, she will slit your throat and paint her future with your blood.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Five: Favourite Relationship(s) - Athos + d'Artagnan, Constance/d'Artagnan, Porthos/Aramis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what do you mean portamis isn't canon

_Athos + d’Artagnan_

Athos remembers the way it started: the giddy relief at having been dragged back from the brink of oblivion, the way it shook through his body and brought dampness to his eyes, and d’Artagnan waiting for him at the stairway—contrite, perhaps, maybe satisfied, or even hopeful, Athos doesn’t know. He’d been impressed with the young man’s single-minded pursuit of justice, even if it had been horribly misguided at first; he doesn’t know if he can have his world shattered, twice, and still call on the strength to seek immediate retribution, leave alone do it when barely into adulthood.

All said and done, however, he’d still expected d’Artagnan to leave for Gascony the next morning.

d’Artagnan showed up at the garrison the next morning, and the next, and the next, until one day Aramis threw him a rapier, and with a sharp salute, asked him to do his worst. Athos found himself gravitating towards the two of them, correcting d’Artagnan’s technique with a sharp word here and there until he unsheathed his own sword and faced off against the young man, trying to ignore Aramis’ wide grin and Porthos’ laughter. Athos regularly sparred with fellow Musketeers, but had a long history of being short and impatient with fresh recruits; he did not care for accommodating their insecurities, especially while feeling the aftereffects of his own overnight indulgences. d’Artagnan, however, displayed the sort of elasticity that would have him come back from every blow to give it back with twice the strength. He could be provoked into being a force of nature, that boy, and with guidance, could be extraordinary.

If Athos is being honest with himself, he will admit that he was interested in watching d’Artagnan grow into his potential.

What he did not expect was the terrible fear that had gripped him when d’Artagnan had volunteered to spy on Vadim, or the numbing rush of relief at finding him alive at the end of the ordeal. He did not expect d’Artagnan to save him from the burning ruins of his old life, or that he would tell him things that he had not a told a living soul in years, or even that d’Artagnan would not sit in judgment of him—only mirror his anguish and guide Athos back into the daylight. It seemed as though that in every moment from then, d’Artagnan was always at his shoulder, looking up to him in either attention, or for approval, or just plain adoration. It unnerved Athos, and does so even now—with Porthos and Aramis, he’d only have to ever let himself be; with d’Artagnan, he has ideals to live upto.

He’d known an idealism like d’Artagnan’s once—while he’d let the wounds that life had dealt him fester and rot, he had no intention of letting the young man do the same. When d’Artagnan had been reeling from losing everything he’d owned, from heartbreak, from the realisation that he’d been manipulated by Milady—Athos did not let him linger. He pushed and pushed, and out emerged d’Artagnan the Musketeer, d’Artagnan the foolish, stubborn, terribly brave boy who would come up with such a ridiculously dangerous plan that it would make Porthos bark out a laugh and say, “ _Now_ , you are truly one of us!”

Athos waits now at the head of the stairs to the Palace as his brothers confront the Cardinal. He’s playing idly with his gloves when he hears d’Artagnan approach, strong and sure, a little hunched in deference to his injured side. Athos smiles lazily at him from under the brim of his hat, and gathers the strength to face whatever trials lay ahead from the blinding grin that d’Artagnan gives him in return.

-

_d’Artagnan/Constance_

“I could help you with that,” d’Artagnan offers one sunny afternoon. He is not required at the garrison for several more hours, and watching Constance prepare dinner had been mesmerising until he’d felt a sudden stab of guilt.

Constance throws a grin at him over her shoulder—and, _lord_. All d’Artagnan can think of is taking her in his arms again and trailing kisses from the curve of her chin to her lips—“Do you have any experience in cooking at all?”

d’Artagnan blinks. “Me? Uh, some, I suppose. I mean—back at the farm I did some, uh—” He forces himself to stop, take a breath. “I was actually just hoping you’d have me cutting something?”

Her grin widens. “Here,” she says, and takes his hands and pulls him to the table. She dusts his hands with flour and breaks off a piece of dough and presses it on the wood in front of him. She steps behind him and takes his hands in hers again—and d’Artagnan’s heart is beating so fast he thinks it might break free of his ribs and gallop away—and guides his hands to knead and roll the dough.

“You think you can do that?” she asks, and her lips brush the back of his neck in a way that makes his hairs stand up.

“Probably,” he squeaks.

Twenty minutes later, the dough is barely done and there’s more flour on their hair and lips than there is on the table, but d’Artagnan thinks it was a fairly productive lesson as he bends to capture Constance’s lips in one more kiss.

-

_Porthos/Aramis_

“Trust me,” Aramis says, as he lines up another shot, aiming at the bandit riding straight for them. From the corner of his eye Porthos sees d’Artagnan’s eyes widen and his mouth open, but he kills whatever protest the lad was going to make with a quick glare. A second later, Aramis fires, and the bandit tumbles off his horse with a cry almost immediately. Aramis turns to Porthos with a wide grin and touches his hat with what d’Artagnan might think is smug satisfaction, or perhaps gratitude, but is actually neither—but Porthos understands, and he smiles back.

-

“Trust me,” Porthos says, and gestures for Aramis to come fight. Aramis casts a dubious look at the two Musketeers lying groaning in the hay, then sighs and charges. Porthos soon has his arms pinned to his sides, grappling him from behind. Aramis instinctively begins to struggle, but Porthos whispers in his ear, “Don’t panic. Just _think_.” Aramis loosens his muscles and rears back, and breaks out of his opponent’s hold, sending Porthos staggering back. And even though the fight eventually ends with Aramis in the hay, both men are flushed with exertion and accomplishment.

-

“Trust me,” Aramis says, and he is about as wild-eyed and desperate as Porthos has ever seen him after Savoy. He’s wielding the most extraordinary accusations against the Captain, and Porthos would rather rip his own arm off than believe that somebody like Treville would sanction the massacre of his own soldiers. But he knows it’s a far more bitter pill for Aramis to swallow, and if he has been pushed far enough to believe it, then the least Porthos can do is stand by his side. “Tell me what I should do,” he says.

-

“Trust me,” Porthos says as he straddles Aramis on the bed and presses his lips to his bare chest. Aramis’ toes curl as Porthos’ hair tickles the underside of his chin and his breath catches in his lungs as Porthos moves those sinful lips to his throat and _suckles_. “I trust you, I trust you,” he says at the end of a disbelieving laugh, “I trust you, I trust you, I trust you,” until the words are swallowed in another kiss.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Seven: Series One. A series of missing scenes for every episode.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I missed out on day six (favourite guest character) because of family commitments. However, here's 10 ficlets for the price of one to make up!

Athos’ hands are shaking long before Cornet’s funeral ends, his throat aching and dry as though lined with sand. Aramis and Porthos return to the garrison to commiserate with the others when it does end, while Athos makes his stumbling way to the nearest tavern, trying very hard not to think about how he had nearly died, too, and that he wouldn’t have even been given the dignity of a funeral—but mostly about how he does not care about any of that as long as he has a bottle of wine in his hands. He has crawled out of too many battlefields to apologise for surviving, but he does hope the day he becomes numb to the prospect of dying in disgrace is far, far away.

There’s a familiar figure at the door to the tavern—a young man, and Athos recognises the slight build and the floppy hair straightaway. “d’Artagnan?”

d’Artagnan starts—a little guiltily, Athos thinks—but smiles brilliantly. “Athos! Come to celebrate?”

“A Musketeer has just perished,” Athos says, probably more icily than he’d intended. “Hardly a cause for celebration.”

d’Artagnan’s face falls. “Right—I’m sorry. You’re right.” He looks exhausted, hunched over slightly, one arm clutching loosely at his side. Athos feels a momentary stab of pity. “Of course,” d’Artagnan adds under his breath, “you also just escaped being executed—but I suppose that happens every other week.”

Athos fights the urge to smile—now he is more like the lunatic that barged into the garrison that very morning, and god help him, he can’t help but like the loose-tongued idiot. “I don’t suppose you are leaving for Gascony?”

“I’m staying in Paris,” d’Artagnan says, loudly, as though inviting Athos to argue. “I don’t really have a choice—I have lost my possessions, and I’ve sold my horse for food, clothes and lodging, and besides, the thought of going back home to explain that I have failed my family and my homeland—” He stops, averts his eyes, realising he’s said too much.

“Then perhaps we do have a cause for celebration,” Athos says kindly. “Let me welcome you to Paris by buying you a drink—Porthos and Aramis should be joining us soon, and I’m sure they’ll provide far more entertaining company than I.”

“Thank you,” d’Artagnan says, and now the smile’s back on his face, and he’s looking to Athos with something akin to adoration. Athos steels himself from smiling back; the last thing he wants to do is get attached to this boy. _It never ends well_ , Athos thinks, walking into the tavern, _Not with me._

-

Aramis slowly unravels Porthos’ bandana, wincing along with the bigger Musketeer as it comes away sticky with blood. Dipping a clean piece of cloth in water, he wipes gently at the crusted blood and dirt at Porthos’ left temple. “I don’t suppose you were planning on informing us about this injury,” Aramis says, pushing back blood-matted curls to squint at the wound, “before you nearly fell of your horse in a dead faint?”

“Was thinkin’ about it,” Porthos mutters, but Aramis only clicks his tongue. “I really was!” he says, louder, but without any real heat. “I’m not an id—I’m not _d’Artagnan_.”

Aramis looks over Porthos’ shoulder at the Gascon sleeping on the far bed, bandages wrapped around his head, wrists and feet, blood already spotting through some of them. He sighs. “An interesting choice of standard for foolhardiness,” he says. “One might even call it… abysmal.”

“Only if one were Athos,” Porthos chuckles, only to break off into a hiss as Aramis probes the wound again.

“Shouldn’t require much needlework,” Aramis says cheerfully, oblivious to Porthos’ cursing. He turns to fetch his tools when Porthos speaks again: “Speaking of foolhardiness, Aramis, what did you think you were doing back there? By throwing yourself on that bomb?”

Aramis pauses, his back still turned. “My duty—protecting the King and Queen at all costs.”

When Porthos doesn’t answer for a long moment, Aramis turns, fearing he may have fainted after all. But no—Porthos is still staring at him, mouth set in a grim line, face shining with sweat. “Be careful, Aramis,” he says, at long last. “Just—be careful. I don’t think I—that any of us could—”

“I know,” Aramis says, refusing to meet Porthos’ gaze as he threads the needle, “and I will.”

-

Milady de Winter has spies inform her of Athos’ detour to la Fere within hours of him stepping into that accursed house.

She will admit to being surprised; Athos has worked so hard to distance himself from his old life, to mutilate his once noble bearing, that she can’t imagine him making the decision lightly. Her spies tell her that one of his fellow Musketeers is injured, and perhaps that is the reason—but she can still scarcely believe that Athos would hold his love for his brother above his own precious principles and code of honour, when he couldn’t do the same for her after all that time they’d spent curled up in each other, making promise after empty promise.

If nothing else, it’s that last thought that has her riding out to la Fere with as much haste as she can.

When she reaches her destination, she stops to meet Remy first—the man is already petrified by Athos’ return, and he starts at her appearance in his doorway, eyes wild like a spooked horse. She remembers him cutting her down after Athos had left, shaking fingers removing the noose and his lips sliding sloppily over hers as he breathed life into her. Remembers recovering in this very house, wrapped in blankets and drinking hot tea and bitter potions as her swollen throat healed. Remembers him asking nothing and everything of her, to stay with him, to run away, to live the life of a blacksmith’s wife in some distant town when she’d just finished living as a Comtesse, married to a man she’d loved so much, so very, very much. Remembers all of this as she draws her blade across his throat and lowers him into his chair.

“Thank you,” she says, surprising herself by how much she means it, and turns away.

-

“You don’t think I really fell for it, do you?” Constance asks.

“For what?” d’Artagnan says absently, busy reloading his arquebus.

“That whole… cabinet-maker nonsense,” she says, waving the rapier that d’Artagnan had loaned her for emphasis, “did you really think I’d fall for a lie that obvious? After what you did to capture Vadim just _weeks_ ago?”

“Well, firstly,” d’Artagnan says, carefully retrieving the sword from her hand and sheathing it, “it was technically Aramis’ idea.”

“I didn’t see you protesting!”

“Well, I didn’t see you protest, either!” d’Artagnan shoots back, feeling considerably braver now that all the weapons are with him. “Besides I thought we’d discussed this—I’ll never lie to you again.”

“My _point,_ ” Constance says, “is that you should lie _better_. Not to me, of course,” she adds quickly, “but if you were going to present him as a cabinet maker you could’ve, well, had him actually look like one!”

“Covered in wood shavings with a chisel tucked behind his ear?” d’Artagnan asks, genuinely bemused, but only earns a smack upside the head.

“You’ve really got to sell your lie,” Constance tells him, not a little smugly. “If I have learnt anything from living with Musketeers prone to using my husband’s house like some secret outpost—”

“So,” d’Artagnan unsheathes the rapier and hands it back to her, “if we were to sell this fight as a genuine duel, I would have to let you actually wound me?”

Constance’s eyes narrow, but they’re still glinting with good humour. “You dance more than you fight; I shall probably be able to slash your neck before you’ve completed your next pirouette.”

d’Artagnan laughs. “We shall see,” he says, before quickly jumping out of the way of a wild swing with a yelp.

-

They bury Charon at the overcrowded graveyard at the very edge of the Court, where it starts to meld into the rest of the city. It seems fitting for a man who’d lived in-between all along, rooted in one life while yearning for another.

Flea leans against Porthos, one arm pressed against her ribs where the musket ball has grazed her. He stares at the roughly-hewn cross, wishes almost absurdly for Aramis to be there to pray so that Charon might get some semblance of a funeral. But he requested his brothers not to come, unwilling, still, to share this part of his life with them so fully. The others in the Court have not shown up either, having learnt of what their king had planned to do, and Porthos can only hope that this grave is not vandalised. He’d almost forgotten how rare lasting friendships are, here—understanding is a luxury few in the Court can afford.

“He loved you, you know—probably more than any of us,” Flea says. “Even when he was willing to let you take the blame for that murder, he couldn’t watch you die. He just couldn’t.”

 _But I could_ , Porthos thinks, _and I did._

He slings Charon’s old jacket, still bloodstained, over one arm of the cross, whispers an apology that’s prayer and a prayer that’s forgiveness, then takes Flea’s hand and leads them into the daylight.

-

Aramis stares.

d’Artagnan shuffles his feet.

Constance blushes and turns her face away.

Agnes clears her throat and says politely, “I’m sorry?”

“It’s the best plan we’ve got,” d’Artagnan says stubbornly. “We need to find out where Henri is, how many men there are and what they plan to do with him, and this way, we get to do it without drawing attention to ourselves.”

“Yes, instead we draw all the attention towards Madame Bonacieux in a place where we cannot protect her.” Aramis shakes his head.

“I can handle myself,” Constance mutters, while d’Artagnan says, “She can do this. We’ll be nearby, watching closely.”

Aramis narrows his eyes, looks between the two of them like he’s contemplating a particularly weighty problem. “I find your penchant for sending Madame in costume on covert missions rather troubling, young d’Artagnan. Perhaps you should apply that imagination to yourself and go in as our new wet nurse? I’m sure Madame can lend you a dress.”

d’Artagnan stares at him before realising he’s serious, at which point he lets out an indignant squawk, and Agnes smiles for the first time since Henri was taken. He turns to Constance, but she seems to be eyeing him with some interest, as though imagining him in the dress, and he turns bright red.

“You would look fantastic, if that is your concern,” Aramis says.

“He would,” Constance says brightly. “But I can do this—trust me. Just tell me what you need to know.”

-

Athos is shaking so hard by the time he leaves the courthouse that he thinks he might fall apart like an abandoned suit of armour. Of _course_ she is here, of _course_ she is involved in this terrible mess somehow, and of _course_ she is the evil, deceitful creature who would rather see the world burn than admit to what she is!

He has not walked very far when the urge to drown himself in a wine bottle rises. He is desperate to follow it, but his duty is not over, and he can’t bear the thought of not seeing Comtesse de Larroque one final time before her sentence is delivered. He makes himself turn back toward the courthouse, his steps heavy with dread.

There’s a huge commotion as he reaches the entrance, and the doors open to reveal Porthos and Aramis carrying a writhing and screaming Cardinal between them towards a waiting carriage. Athos stares, nonplussed, before a breathless Treville tells him, “Been poisoned. To the palace, _now_!”

Aramis carries the Cardinal over his shoulder to his room after they reach the palace—his calm and brisk competence in the face of the frightening and inexplicable vagaries of the body is still a sight to behold, even after all these years. Athos and Treville manage to drag the King off the Cardinal’s struggling body, though it becomes less of an issue after the Cardinal starts vomiting copiously.

“A basin, hot water, more towels!” Aramis snaps to the room in general, and as servants scurry around to obey, Athos steps out to take a deep breath. He thinks he sees a hint of dark hair and billowing silk turn the corridor, but he’s got far too much on his mind to let her haunt him today.

-

“Young d’Artagnan’s brooding,” Porthos says, craning his neck and squinting at the garrison entrance.

“I was afraid Athos would influence him in such a way, but I must admit that I did not expect to see it happen so soon,” Aramis says, biting placidly into a piece of bread.

“Well, he doesn’t need to be Athos to be upset after losing his home, everythin’ he owns.”

Aramis sighs, places his food deliberately back on his plate. “Porthos.”

“There’s nobody here who stands to gain more from winnin’ this contest than him, you know that.”

“Porthos—”

“And he can be damn good, really good, if he stops spinning and twirling as much with the swords, an’ actually use his height when he’s wrestling, an’ cares to take a little more time when firing the musket.”

Aramis looks amused. “You seem to have taken quite an interest in our young charge,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. “If you are interested in mentoring him—”

“I can teach,” Porthos mutters, crossing his arms.

“—I’m afraid you’re a little late, because I do believe Athos has taken it upon himself to make sure d’Artagnan earns his commission from this.”

Porthos squints at him. “And how do you know that?”

“Because he has recruited me to help him,” Aramis says triumphantly. “For now, my contribution has been mostly to laugh at d’Artagnan’s follies, for there is no greater motivation than humiliation.” At Porthos’ sceptical look, he adds, “I’m sure you will be approached as well.”

“Still,” Porthos says, pouring wine into his and Aramis’ glasses. “It would’ve been nice to get that prize money.”

“My dear Porthos,” Aramis says, putting a hand to his heart, “just why do you think we’re helping? To persuade young d’Artagnan to share his prize with us, of course!”

Porthos chuckles. “I’ll drink to that,” he says, and clinks glasses with Aramis.

-

The Queen rides with the Captain on the way back to Paris.

 _Queen_. Aramis will have to get used to calling her that way again—which is absurd all by itself, because there is no sane reason he should’ve called her anything else in the first place. _You reach far beyond your means, boy_ , his father would tell him, _there’s nothing that comes out of that but disappointment and heartbreak_. He’d dismissed his father then as a man of limited imagination and even smaller ambition, but he is beginning to see the wisdom in his words.

 _Anne_ —

He shakes his head, tries to remember Isabel’s small hands in his, her voice cracking when she revealed that she was pregnant. The excitement, the nervousness, the nauseating feeling of having your entire life written for you when you were barely into adulthood; then—the desolation of having it all wiped away in an instant. Thinks of the hard planes of her face now, the rough hands, the serenity in her eyes before she passed, and wonders if he will ever find such a thing.

He turns to see Athos glaring at him, as though he can read Aramis’ thoughts. Aramis smiles back, tries to say, _I’m not going to grab her from her horse_ and _you need not worry_ and _she is forever lost to me_ in the quirk of his lips. Athos nods and looks straight ahead, seemingly satisfied with whatever he’d read.

 _Anne_ , Aramis thinks. _Just one last time. Anne._

_-_

“You’re crazy. I’m not shooting you.”

“A great woman once told me—you have to sell your lie convincingly.”

“… I regret ever having told Constance that.”

“Shut up, Aramis. I’m not shooting you, d’Artagnan, it’s too dangerous.”

“In my _arm_.”

“Which can cause far more damage than you know.”

“Oh, for—Porthos? A little help here?”

“Arm’s better than any other place. Have some chance of salvagin’ in case things go wrong.”

“Besides, young d’Artagnan has two of them! I’m sure he can spare one.”

“…Thank you, Aramis?”

“You’re terrible. You’re all terrible.”


End file.
